


i am not my own (for i have been made new)

by Metronomeblue



Series: The Owl City Saga [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Because Fuck Canon That's Why, Emma is willing to give him that hug, F/M, Gen, Killian is a real person with real feelings who needs a hug, Liam has character development, Part three of the Owl City Saga, Peter Pan is not Malcolm, Peter is a bit of a creep for good reasons, The Jones' dad is an asshole of epic proportions, companion to i'll be out of my mind (and you'll be out of ideas), hella vague honestly its not that big of a deal, lets face it if it has milah in it she's going to die, vague smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 15:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2698526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian loves the ocean because it doesn't leave him.<br/>(Because Killian Jones' life is a story of loss. Over and over again, everything he loves dies in his arms, blood running over his hands.)<br/>(Because the ocean cannot die)</p><p>Part three of the Owl City Saga</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in the service

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the fact that each of these stories was inspired by and titled after an Owl City song, the song I feel truly fits this story is Kolniður by Jónsi, found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vlB_8TYnt88 on youtube

As far back as he can remember, there is the ocean. It's the only constant, reaching up to the sky as if running to meet it at the horizon, licking like ice fire at his heels as he chases Liam into the waves, brushing like someone's gaze on the back of his neck as he drinks in a pub. "Pirate," random passer-by would sneer at his father, shrinking into their doorways to spit at his feet and mutter amongst themselves. "Thief," they'd hiss triumphantly, pulling him or Liam from behind the docks, taking what little food they'd managed to steal off the pier.

And all the while, the ocean.

Even knowing that there were many seas, many waves of different colors and sizes and sounds, for Killian it was all one vast expanse of water, ever-changing in its intensity and music. The name didn't matter.

Killian remembers choosing his name. The first few years of his life, he'd been called Little Brother, Son, Boy. Liam would tell him that they were leaving it up to him to choose his own name, the small candle behind his big brother flickering like the lie had sent wind through the room. He knew that their father just didn't care enough to give him a name, but he took the lie and made it real in believing it.

He learned to read off of stolen cargo, barrels of whiskey and apples and sacks of flour. His father would swing on ropes like vines to take the other ship, to take hold of someone else's hope and make it his own. Liam and Boy would watch from behind the Captain's cabin, counting the fallen merchant sailors, tallying the bloodshed accrued by each man. Counting the lives their father took like most boys count ants running from a flood.

One day, when Boy was six, they took the Killian Andrews, a slave ship that carried men from freedom into eternal prison. Boy watched with wide eyes, seeing how the stolen cargo stood and embraced his father. Seeing how men were turned to beasts were turned to men again.

It was a heady kind of magic, he found. Righteousness.

"Killian," he whispered to Liam, biting his lip and twisting his fingers. "I want to be Killian." Liam nodded, staring thoughtfully through the window to gaze at black-blue waves.

"Killian Jones. Aye, it's a fine name."

The name didn't matter to anyone but Liam. "Boy," they called, telling him to clean the decks, tie the sails, strip the masts, patch the ropes. "Son," his father called, the name feeling more like ownership than affection. "Little Brother," Liam called, stroking his hair in the dark of night as the ships burned on the water and their father tracked blood across the wood.

As their lives rose and fell like the ocean in a storm.

Their father's ship was taken when Killian was eight, hair blowing into his eyes and smoke painting his eyes black in the night. Liam cried silently, tears running black and grey down his cheeks as the cinders burned through his skin. Their father stayed with them, rough fingertips prodding them whenever they made a sound, gruff humming pervading their dreams like cannon fire in a garden.

On Liam's fifteenth birthday they woke in the dark to an empty bed and a locked cell door. Liam broke the silence for the first time in two years, cursing their father with every name under the sun and slamming himself against the door over and over again until dark bruises in lines the shape of the door were presses into his skin. When the clock struck dawn, Liam threw himself back onto the now unoccupied bed. Killian crawled hesitantly up next to him.

"It's you and me now," Liam said, voice even despite the blood beginning to soak his clothes. "You and me and nobody else. Forever." Killian nodded, gently examining his brother's wounds.

"Forever."

They were set free, assumed to be too young to do any damage to the kingdom. The very next year, Liam enlisted in the Royal Navy, and Killian followed.

"Loyal to the last, you,"  Liam's Commanding officer chuckled, ruffling Killian's hair. His brother quirked a smile at him, and Killian nodded eagerly.

The skies were clear from then on. There wasn't a single drop of rain in the kingdom they'd landed in, a drought-stricken wastland with an overabundance of salt water and ships. The navy was good to the both of them, giving them a home and a purpose for five years. The time was a blur in Killian's memory- carrying supplies, perfecting his literacy, learning navigation and geography, cleaning ships, building ships, falling asleep on watch and being whipped for it. Over those five years, however, the elder brother rose through the ranks, Killian not far behind.

Liam woke Killian on his sixteenth birthday with a map.

"We're looking for freshwater," he commented offhandedly, buttoning his jacket. "The Salt Stream flows to the middle fo the kingdom, and somewhere along it the King has become convinced there's a freshwater spring."

"That's madness," Killian sighed, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. "The salt would seep into any spring within twenty leagues of the Stream." His brother shrugged, tossing him a sheathed rapier.

"The madness of a King is the wisdom of a common man."

And so it was. The Stream flowed for some thousand leagues into the kingdom, each of which would have to be thoroughly examined and charted, and Killian, his brother told him, was second-in-command of this endeavour.

"What? Why?" Killian spluttered, dashing after his brother. "We're the youngest officers in the navy!" Liam snorted, pausing so his lankier companion could lope up to him.

"Exactly," Liam sighed. "It's not of particular importance, Kill. It's a long, boring job that nobody else wants."

"So we've got to do it," Killian stated. His brother nodded, straightening his posture. "What're you-?" The doors to the throne room swung open, swishing within an inch of Killian's head, bathing them both in golden light.

The throne room was long, lined with guards taller than anyone Killian had ever seen. Every inch of it was bright, light reflecting from every corner into the center, drawing attention to the man sitting at the end of the hall. Amidst all the splendour, Killian felt small and tight, like his skin wanted to peel itself off and hide. The king beckoned, golden robes glittering under the firelight.

"Your Highness," Liam bowed, and Killian followed him awkwardly, a shadow.

The whole Stream takes six years to chart, and they return with a report that notes fifteen possible freshwater sources. For this, they're both promoted- Liam to Captain, and Killian, ever his trustworthy supporter, his Lieutenant. He marvels at himself in the mirror, wonders whether his father would be proud or disgusted to know his sons had become good men, respectable sailors under a mad king.

Killian is almost certain he wouldn't give a damn either way.

The King sends them on another mission. 

Looking for a plant, they cross into a strange land with a sail made from magic and hope.

They find the plant, and Liam throws all caution to the wind like the fool he is. Killian doesn't trust the small boy, whose sharp green eyes and protective stance had reminded him too much of every thief he'd ever known; protecting something stolen, something they cherished and didn't own.

But his brother is dying in his arms, the only family he has left (the only family he loves) gasping and crying in pain between his hands, and he has to trust him.

He has to trust somebody, poor fool that he is.

And Liam wakes, safe and fine and whole, and Killian can't do anything but thank the strange boy, smile at him like a madman. The boy seems annoyed, but his muscles aren't as tense and he looks over his shoulder like there's somebody there he trusts.

And for a moment, all is well again.

 

 


	2. in the blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2/3
> 
> Killian's journey from Neverland to Misthaven to Neverland to Misthaven once more.
> 
> NOTE: the T rating is warranted for a section, but personally I don't feel it's descriptive enough to warrant anything over a T. (It is, for example, the kind of thing you might see for a tastefully shot minute in a pg-13 movie.) If you feel otherwise, though, let me know and I'll change it.

( _When Liam dies, a piece of Killian does too._ )

So much of him is tied up with Liam, so much of him relies on Liam to exist that without him Killian doesn't feel like himself anymore. So he decides not to be. He calls himself a pirate and starts destroying the same country he once defended, begins dealing in gold and blood rather than information and respect. He starts to lose himself.

And then, only a few years later he's drinking in a port town, and the sun is setting and the world is tilted just right and he meets the most amazing woman.

She looks at him with sad eyes, darker than the deepest ocean, a brown-black like ebony or oblivion. And she says she’s married, that she has a son, that despite this she’s so alone. ( _she looks alone, her spine bowing with the weight of her loneliness and frustration_ )

And for the first time in four years he feels like _Killian_ again as he says he understands, as he tells her how much she deserves, how her husband should _fight_ for her because she is someone wise and strong and brave ( _beautiful_ ) in her sadness and her fierceness. She laughs him off, but there’s something like bashfulness and shy pleasure in the shine of her eyes, the curve of her smile.

He leaves, but makes sure to return on his next voyage. ( _Makes sure to return with enough room for another crewmember and a ring fitted with a piece of onyx that glistens in the light like her hair._ ) This time, she goes with him. He doesn’t ask why. He should, but he doesn’t, only asks about whether she wants to bring her son with her. She looks at him with an ageless pain, and tells him the boy’s father needs him more. ( _He doesn’t argue. He should, but he doesn’t. He regrets that bitterly, in the years to come._ )

Killian likes to dream. _(but it gets hard when his dreams fade into an endless loop of Liam dying._ ) He takes to roaming the ship at night, passing doors and listening in on other peoples’ dreams, living through them. Milah is the only one who notices. She lies there, in her hammock in the darkness, eyes turned unblinkingly to the door. ( _watching him watch them_ ) He doesn’t know how she feels; she never betrays any particular emotion. He thinks maybe she doesn’t care, but some nights he catches her asleep, face twisting with pain and conflict. He thinks maybe she feels safer awake. ( _They are alike in this, as they are in so many things._ )

A year after she joins his crew she kisses him under a red sun, blood on her hands and her lips. He clutches her close, hands roaming down her sides like he wants to know every part of her. (he does) He pulls her after him into his cabin, pulls off her coat with a strange mixture of care and desperation. She slides her hands under his waistcoat, traces a scar that raises over his hip. ( _the tightness of the fabric presses her fingers into his skin like they’re a part of him and he feels static in his spine_ ) He presses his lips to hers with all the force and want he can give her. She meets him blow for blow, one hand reaching up to tangle in his hair, the other undoing his belt as he unlaces her shirt. They lose themselves in each other, mouths and pleasure and revelations. She traces his scars, from his back to his chest to his hips once more. He gasps into her mouth and she smiles at him. He traces the invisible seams of her skin, running his mouth down her neck to her chest, her cries a more beautiful sound than any he's heard in years.  ( _they dream together for an hour, awake and asleep and alone_ )

He has never felt more alive.

He thinks about it sometimes in the nights that come after that, when he and Milah share a bed and a command and a strange love for life. He traces a scar on her shoulder from an accident when she was just a girl and thinks about how much older than him she is, how much more of life she’s seen. (And in some ways, how much less.) She wakes, sometimes, clasps his hand in hers.

“I’d choose you again,” she says, lips firm and pressed together like two halves of a lock. “If I had a choice, I’d choose you again.” He smiles and kisses her hair and accepts her words.

( _He knows. He’s seen the silent tears at night, heard the shaking sobs she can’t always quell. He has heard her dreams, and they are not of him._ )

( _That’s fine. He half wishes she’d brought Baelfire with her himself._ )

They return to the town they’d met, and he’d forgotten about her husband. Truly, the man had been less than a thought in his mind for so many years he’d almost forgotten he existed. ( _He shouldn’t have, but he did, and he regrets so much_ ) So when he loses that duel to the bloody crocodile he’s burning with frustration as much as shame. ( _Stupid Boy, his father’s voice taunts._ )

Milah dies in his arms, and reality shatters apart everything’s fragile and frozen and unwelcome the whole world is a nuisance he just wants to see her face once more, but the sun is so bright, his hand is gone his rage is welling so high and so full he can’t

When he comes back to himself, Milah is being buried at sea, his hand is a cold metal stump and the ship is stained with both their blood.

( _He rouses his crew again, only this time it is revenge he seeks, true vengeance, bloodshed, the end of that immortal crocodile whose voice taunts him, haunts him, follows him past the ends of the earth._ )

( _Neverland, something in him growls, deep and low and vicious._ )

The bean is small and silver and a way out. He returns to that empty land once more, no brother, no lover, no Killian left to care for. The boy looks at him from the sand, and Killian understands the hard cruelty in his eyes, the darkness in his blank, capricious gaze.

“I need time,” he tells the boy, and the boy nods, something like kinship in his smile.

“That’s all we have here,” he replies, and the air behind him shimmers and there’s a girl, faded and sickly but equally determined and twice as formidable as the boy.

“That’s not all,” she says darkly, and Killian nearly laughs with hysteria when he recognizes the leaves crowning her head. ( _the poison she teaches him to make is something he will never not be grateful for, because it gives him purpose._ )

( _It takes him three hundred years to recognize the sharp edge of her mouth, the dark ebony-brown of her eyes and the shine of her black hair._ )

When he returns to his own realm, to the realm he had yearned for for so many years, he finds something new, something harsh and cold and purposeful where his heart once was, but he doesn’t mind. It doesn’t matter to him anymore who he has to betray or kill or hurt. Whatever it takes, he tells himself over and over. Whatever it takes. The world is turning beneath his feet. he can feel it, sometimes, in the curve of the ocean and the smell of the sea on the wind. He can feel the movement, just a shiver, and it makes him smile to know there's an eternity beyond this. Nothing but time, he's had, nothing but time to figure out how to kill his crocodile, to harden himself to this.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. In the end, he finds his heart again before he finds the crocodile.

  
( _In the end, he finds Emma Swan and Henry. It’s better than revenge, maybe._ )

**Author's Note:**

> And then everything went wrong.
> 
> I'm seriously thinking of writing one of these for Liam. He's grown on me. If I don't, the next one will be Peter Pan's story.


End file.
